


How the Serpent Stole Christmas

by PossumTeeth



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adam is Cindy Lou Who, Alcohol, Aziraphale is Martha May Whovier, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Crowley is the Grinch but he's referred to as a Serpent, Crowley still has his snake eyes, Dog is Max, Fluff, Gabriel is Mayor Maywho, Grinch!Crowley, Jim Carrey's Grinch can curse so Crowley can too, M/M, Quite extraordinary amounts of requited love, Requited Love, Secret Relationship, Who!Aziraphale, Wine, male-presenting aziraphale, male-presenting crowley, might change the rating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-13 00:22:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21485266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PossumTeeth/pseuds/PossumTeeth
Summary: All the Whos down in South Downs liked Christmas a lot…… But the Serpent who lived just north of South Downs, did not.A retelling of Jim Carrey's "How the Grinch Stole Christmas", with Crowley as the Grinch and Aziraphale as the long-coveting love interest, Martha May Whovier.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	How the Serpent Stole Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> This work was inspired by AzulyToons (@AzulyToons on Instagram) and her adorable Seussian-based Ineffable Husbands artwork! Go check her out if you want to be delighted! She's an amazing artist.

> ** _All the Whos down in South Downs liked Christmas a lot…_ **
> 
> ** _… But the Serpent who lived just north of South Downs, did not._ **
> 
> ** _The Serpent hated Christmas! The whole Christmas season! (Oh, please don’t ask why, no one quite knows the reason.)_ **
> 
> ** _It could be his head wasn’t screwed on quite right. It could be, perhaps, that his jeans were too tight._ **
> 
> ** _But I think that the most likely reason of all…_ **
> 
> ** _May have been that his heart was two sizes too small._ **
> 
> ** _But whatever the reason, his heart or his jeans, he snarled and sneered and turned to convene…_ **
> 
> ** _With his dog, also known as Dog._ **
> 
> ** _“Look at them,” he sneered down at the town. Crowley was his name, poison in his frown. “Look at them, you see? Greedy Whos, the lot of ‘em! I can’t just let that be!”_ **
> 
> ** _The Serpent of the mountain, his rage abounds, glowered down at the glow of South Downs. In his anger—_ **

“KNOCK IT OFF!” Crowley finally snapped at the narration, having grown quite tired of rhymes. He stuffed his hands in his too-tight pockets and tried to ignore the cold of the snow billowing around him. Despite his mossy fur, the chill crept into his bones. “Happens every bloody Christmas Eve. I hate rhyming,” he grumbled.

Dog growled and nudged his owner’s foot.

“I’ll go in when I’m good and ready!”

Crowley stood there a moment longer, long enough to consider it his idea before he stomped back into his lair.

The dark, barren depths of the cave cloaked the Serpent’s nerves a tad as he stalked deeper into the abyss, Dog following close behind.

“I really, really hate this holiday, if that wasn’t clear,” he hissed down at the hound, who gave an unimpressed huff back because the mutt had heard it all before. “Happens every year—_ngk_… Every Christmas,” the Serpent corrected. “All of this good cheer and the lights and… merriment…” he shuddered. Being a Who (well, more like a What) that relished the awful things in life, Crowley could appreciate the wickedness of commercialism. 

But when this particular holiday came around, those Whos were _unbearable!_

The twinkling lights that decorated every single one-eightieth-of-a-half-inch in the town blinded the Serpent whenever he decided to step out for a sulk.

Scents of sickly-sweet holiday treats wafted up to the tip-top of his mountain and saturated his damp cave smell with breezes of sugar and cocoa and razzle-dazzle double-decker doozle cakes and fruit-filled fudge fritters… 

That blasted marching band traipsed around the square, bleeding his ears all day and night.

Even now, he could hear the feather-soft chorus of the carolers that rose up to crawl across his spine with crisp tones of glad tidings.

_ **Deck your heart with jollity** _  
_ **Style your smile all Christmas-y** _  
_ **Flick some flocking on the tree** _  
_ **Let there be Whobilation!** _

_ **Bake the fruitcake, egg the nog** _  
_ **Feed the flaming Wholtide log** _  
_ **Baste the beast and gulp the grog** _  
_ **Let there be Whobilation!** _

_ **Tick, tock! Tick, tock!** _  
_ **Counting down the Christmas clock!** _  
_ **Old, young, big, small—** _

_“Sssstupid sssssong!”_ A deep, hateful hiss shattered the joyous atmosphere and Crowley strolled deeper into the cave to escape the cheeriness.

The further in he traveled, the cave appeared to open and grow a little brighter. The bleak and dismal gloom started to fade; the smell of earth bloomed around him.

Crowley’s mutters drew the sound of rustling, of terrified leaves that shook violently as he prowled into the garden. A veritable rainbow of foliage greeted his vision, tall stalks and fuzzy crowns and petals, churning and twirling tendrils that trembled overhead as they sensed their master’s anger.

The Serpent snatched the spray bottle lying on the ground. He began to mist aggressively.

“I’m at my wits’ end,” Crowley snarled and bared his teeth at a shivering Oggle vine, which slowly inched up the wall to escape his wrath like a woolly blue-swirled python. "I've suffered for decades through these insipid holidays..."

A volley of spritzes dampened leaves and covered up a particularly loud ballad of Christmas cheer in the distance.

“They need someone to knock some sense into them,” he growled directly at a bundle of sweetly colored Nuffie Tuffs quivering at his feet.

His garden offered no solutions. Only fear.

“I can’t even imagine the noise this Whobilation’ll stir up. It’ll mark the thousandth celebration!” He saw the banners that announced this, bright and obnoxious and flapping in the distance. “One-thousand! Can you imagine?” Even with his incredibly creatively morbid imagination, Crowley couldn’t bear the thought. “You know what this means? One-thousand times the noise! One-thousand times the headache!”

His angry hisses blended in with the petrified, rattling shrubbery until it became a high-pitched, terrible sound. 

"Right," said the Serpent, fed up with brooding and having nothing to show for it outside of horrified vegetation. He threw the spray bottle down, a plan in motion. "DOG! Cloak! I'm going out!" If his day was going to be ruined by a bunch of cheerful Whos, he'll make his own happiness, which usually entailed far more mischief and vandalism than any decent Who-or-What could ever do in that little town. 

"One man's suffering is another man's personal enjoyment," he would often proclaim, to himself, amidst the darkness of his empty and desolate cave and an inattentive Dog.

And he knew exactly the Who whom to do it to.


End file.
